Page 62 of Running Risk
He looks around. “I don’t see anyone else taking care of you.”
My eyebrows furrow. “I’m a grown woman. I don’t need anyone else to take care of me. I was doing just fine, thank you very much.” I hold my head up higher. “I even made myself tea.”
He takes containers out from the bag on the counter. “That’s great, Ry, but unless you’re also feeding yourself, you won’t get better anytime soon.”
I fold my arms across myself while I hold on tighter to the blanket. “I was about to make myself something to eat.”
He looks at me for a moment. “What were you going to make?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. I would have found something.”
He nods and puts the containers back in the bag.
“What are you doing?” I take a step closer.
He pauses, pulling off his hat to rake his fingers through his hair before putting it back on. “Since you said you had your food covered, I was leaving . . . with the food I brought.”
I try to get a better look at the containers to see what’s in them. “What did you bring?” I say in almost a whisper.
“Chicken noodle soup. I made it from my mom’s recipe.”
My eyes jump to his. He made me soup? Why would he do something like that? He probably had to go to the store and get the supplies to make it, while also grabbing the book I wanted from across town.
“I have crackers too.” He lifts an eyebrow. “Would you like my food now?”
I nod slowly and watch him take out the containers again. He walks around the kitchen, opening cabinets and drawers until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. Once he lays the still-warm soup in front of me, I clutch it between my hands, walk to the table, and sit down. He brings me a spoon, crackers, and a fresh cup of tea before returning to the kitchen, cleaning up the mess he made, and then cleaning my now-empty bowl. He does it all without a word and leaves as quickly as he came. Right as he’s about to close my front door, I call out, “Thank you.”
I watch him pause and nod before disappearing again, and I pull out my phone.
Me:
You’ve got some explaining to do.
Trish:
You have to forgive him at some point.
44
CLAYTON: NOW
Grabbingmy keys from the kitchen counter, I walk out the front door and jump in my truck. The engine purrs to life as my phone rings in my pocket. Pulling it out, I immediately answer, seeing Mr. Thompson’s name.
“Hello?”
“Hey, son. I was wondering if you had a minute to come by?”
My hand thrums on the steering wheel. “Yeah. I’m leaving my house now. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
“Great. Janet will have breakfast waiting for you.” He doesn’t wait for a reply before he hangs up.
I’ve always valued their relationship and am thankful they don’t treat me differently, no matter the status of the relationship I have with their daughter. I’d drop anything and everything to be there for them if they call. In minutes, I pull into their driveway. The house is exactly as I remember the first time my parents took me here for dinner all those years ago. Janet’s garden of flowers has expanded, but it’s barely changed beyond that. After parking, I walk to their front door, and I don’t have toknock before Mrs. Thompson swings the door open. A smile already stretches across her face.
“Clayton, I’m glad you could make it. I hope we aren’t keeping you from too much work. I know how hard the business is to run.” She stands aside, allowing me room to enter after I scuff the bottom of my boots on their mat outside, not wanting to track in dirt.
“It’s no problem.” I follow her into the dining room, where Mr. Thompson already sits at the head of the table. I sit on the side, across from Mrs. Thompson, like I have every other time when Rylee isn’t here. When she lived here, we sat across from each other, and Mrs. Thompson sat at the other end of the table.
Mr. Thompson grabs the platter in front of him and extends it to me. Sitting on it are large fluffy pancakes and bacon, and there’s another platter with fried eggs and seasoned potatoes. My stomach growls at the spread before me. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here to eat, and each time, I leave with a full stomach.
